


Battlefield Religion (part 1)

by supernovarianwizard



Series: a Duncan fic [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Hypervigilance, Melancholy, Multi, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religion, andrastrianism, imposter syndrome, spirituality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 02:41:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16735539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernovarianwizard/pseuds/supernovarianwizard
Summary: A Warden's religion/spirituality often does not reflect the ones they are born into.Duncan reflects on different parts of his life and how they have shaped his beliefs even as they continue to evolve while he lives as the Commander of the Grey in Fereldan.Set in a generic, Warden mission to the Deep Roads.





	Battlefield Religion (part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Here, take this, it’s dangerous to go alone! 
> 
> I don’t like all of David Gaider’s characterization of Duncan, so while this draws on much from both the game and The Calling, it encompasses the Duncan I’ve come to love while playing this game far too much over the last few years. (And the extrapolation I've had to make due to his untimely demise.) 
> 
> This is the first installment of a series of short fics involving Duncan. Some will be more somber like this, others will be silly, others well...we’ll see. They won't always be in order, they'll likely jump around to different times in his life, but I'll do my best to keep the ones in multiple parts next to each other, or labeled for continuity. Anyway, this is his introduction into my fic writing, as he’s been made in my head. 
> 
> Have fun!

Prayer always made Duncan uncomfortable. Well, the prayer that the Chantry shoved down everyone’s throats, anyway. The inherent whininess and self-flagellation that pervaded the prayers of the Chant were enough to drive most sane people to do things they would regret.

He’d seen it happen more than once growing up in the streets of Val Rouyeaux, the Chant would be wafting down the avenue from the grand cathedral and those it alienated became angry and began to spend what little coin they possessed on drink which usually led to a night in prison. Unfortunately, the Chant was the law of most lands and even most of his own Wardens were ardent believers. He couldn’t escape the Chant any more than a street rat could the filth of his own life, and that’s exactly how he felt, even after all these years in Command of the Grey in Ferelden.

_Street Rat._

That’s what the Grand Enchanter Remille had called him just before he’d stuck him with his own blade. He’d been proud of himself afterwards, but time and time again he found himself brought back to his seventeen year old self: tall, gangly, scruffy, rough-and-tumble, uncertain, and not at all that pious. It was times like now, when they mourned the loss of one of their own that he felt the most like that young man, fresh out of a broken childhood, not one of the group but among them nonetheless. He usually let the most pious among them do the honors of speaking over their beloved friend and comrade because he was certain if he tried to say anything they would see he was just a child in disguise. Of course he knew it was not true, but it still plagued him. Some of the Wardens noticed something was amiss, but they usually attributed it to his losing yet another of his “children” to the darkspawn.

Indeed, it was a gentle joke among the Wardens that he was the father to many a wayward child who would have come to naught had he not intervened, and they weren’t entirely incorrect. He did take many a young person under his wing, and what he remembered of his parents’ guidance until they died did indeed shape the way he helped them along their journey. Although not all recruits he took in were young. Many were older than him, and while they followed him as commander, it was he who often learned from them rather than the other way around.

The prayer for Mikhael finally ended, and Duncan was relieved. The stone he kept in his pocket to help ease his anxiety was very warm in his hand, its silky smooth surface comforting. He looked at Mikhael’s shrouded corpse and nodded, raised the stone to his lips and kissed it gently before putting it in his pocket once more.

Looking around he could see the sad, quiet faces of his Wardens waiting for him to finish his honors and give them their orders. It had been an extremely long day, the darkspawn were still present farther down the Deep Roads but were not an immediate threat, and no better place could he think of to camp than where this battle had played out. They were not cornered, there were two ways out, and there was a tiny water source springing from the rock that yielded the only untainted water they had seen in some time. It was as perfect as they could get at the moment.

“Make camp.” he barked gruffly.

“And set a watch on both entrances. We will rest here for now with Mikhael. Tomorrow we move-w-w-”

_Without him..._

He couldn’t bring himself to say it so he ended there. His Wardens nodded wetly and did as they were told. The eldest among them lending their strength to the younger ones who hadn’t lost comrades before.

“Maker...” he breathed quietly,

“...or whatever you are, let us all make it out together this time.”

Some of the newer recruits were having trouble with their tents and he helped them with his years of experience working with hands tired from wielding a blade. Then he pitched his own tent and removed his packs, nodding affirmatively when the question of removing armor came up. It was best to take the little time they had to enjoy moving freely since they were up against many days and nights living in their armor. He began the arduous process of removing armor himself. There were wounds he needed healed, and his skin begged for air.

The gauntlets were first to come off, and he started, as he always did, at the sight of his own hands. Living for battle often made him feel like a head perched atop a suit of armor, and so the reminder that he had other body parts was surprising each time. His skin was the color of nutmeg, and stood out starkly against the veridium of his armor. His hands reminded him of his mother, dark velvety skin, and lovelier than any Chantry maiden with her tightly coiled hair, full lips and soulful brown eyes. She had always liked to dress him in bright colors, as was the custom of her Rivaini people, remarking how he looked just like his grandfather-except his nose, that he got from his Tevinter father.

 _“Oh well!”_ She had said breezily, after one of those moments when she regarded him with fierce pride.

_“I suppose you can’t have everything...”_

He’d giggled uncontrollably, because his tall, broad, hawk-nosed father was standing behind her quietly with a smirk on his face. She had most definitely known he was there, and the dig was all in good fun. They had loved each other passionately, and one of Duncan’s bigger regrets was that he could not cultivate a relationship like theirs. They had exuded love and playfulness, and throughout the years whenever his life became tough he remembered his parents’ joy to help him get through whatever troubles he was up against.

Undoing the straps to his breastplate, it came off and he saw his reflection in its surface. These days he felt he looked more like his father, although he still lacked a few inches on the man’s sheer height. But the nose, of course, and face and beard were all the same. 

He had winked at Duncan, his lips twitching in merriment and his eyes sparkling as his wife playfully insulted his looks, which on any other day, she would have lauded as the most handsome, and would not hear a single word against him from any of the other ladies on their street.

_“No indeed my son! You are cursed forever with my nose! Better accept it now, before you spend your life wishing for another.”_

He’d giggled harder then. At only seven he could not imagine for a moment what his life was going to become in only a few short years.

Finally, removing his boots, and avoiding the smell of his own feet, he sighed deeply. He was all he had left of his mother and father, and he could only hope that he made them proud. There had been an amulet once, that his mother had given him as a reminder of his heritage, but he had needed to hawk it early on after they died in order to survive. The armor he wore made up for that, however, and he kept it immaculately. After making Lieutenant he had taken a short leave and traveled to Rivain to visit his mother’s people for the first time. It was there that he had found the armor. A piece of his heritage. Like a blanket and not at the same time. It kept him safer against the darkspawn, warded with runes, all encompassing, and was, for him, the last embrace of his dying mother.

Pulling on a cleaner shirt and loose trousers, Duncan cast aside the thoughts of his parents with one last glance at the armor laid out on the floor of the tent. He would polish it later, and indulge in his memories once more. For the moment, however, it was time to see that everyone was ready for the night, and the watch had been set.

After a quiet meal and a bit of merriment where everyone tried to avoid the collective stink of unwashed feet and bodies, Duncan retired to his tent to sleep during the first watches of the night. Content, at least, that his remaining Wardens had been cared for after their loss. 

He cleaned and polished his armor remembering his father training him to fight with daggers at ten, then learning from an older girl who lived in Val Royeaux’s streets when he was twelve, and yet more techniques learned as he grew into the awkward young man that had survived a Joining he hadn’t chosen. Since then he had learned even more. He could fight just as well with sword and shield, and crossbows, flails and two handed swords; even Qunari slaver whips were among the many weapons he could wield with skill. But he always favored daggers. They were the perfect size for the techniques of a dangerous rogue, which he remained despite his position.

Satisfied with a job well done, he set aside his armor and weapons and laid down to sleep. Wrapped up in blankets, belly full, in relative safety with his comrades surrounding him, he could honestly say that he was content. Taking out his worry stone he brought it to his lips and kissed it gently before holding it in his fist as sleep overcame him.

His eyes fluttered open to his Lieutenant shaking him awake for the last watch. There had been few darkspawn dreams, and mostly the regular, odd kind that made more questions than were worth asking upon waking, and for that he was deeply grateful since there had not been nearly enough sleep to soothe his exhaustion. Yawning, he tried to shrug off the weariness. Such was the life of a Warden. He kissed the stone gently and put it in his pocket as he readied himself. 

He walked the first rounds of his watch armed and armored top to bottom, healed and ready to do damage were it needed. Keeping his gaze around the perimeter of the camp, and on the exit he was assigned to, he set his intention of protection as he walked, imagining it exiting his feet and becoming a part of the stone below. 

One of his Sergeants had asked once what it was he concentrated on so fully during a watch, and his explanation had got an astonished look and questioning whether he had Dwarvish ancestry. He had chuckled then. His personal practices were, indeed, similar to the Dwarvish ones, but he was Andrastrian by association, so if he were to try to relate to anyone from Orzamar he would be scoffed at the very least. Also, much of his belief did not lie in the blessings of ancestors or even his worry stone. It was the stuff forged in the fires of war. The things you could believe in, or needed to believe in to keep going. Even the most pious former Templar Wardens had these. Were any of them to return to Chantry service the priests would be appalled at the change in their ways. The life of a Warden necessitated much more than what the Chantry could offer. Other parts simply were things that felt right, that needed doing, like his worry stone. Touching it kept him present, much like a child’s toy or blanket that kept them safe. The kisses he laid on it were less for the stone and more for himself, a reminder of the second chance of life he had been granted and the love he brought to it.


End file.
